Bottlecaps
by freckleon
Summary: An assortment of old or half-written or nonsensical stories I've got floating around about this lovely universe.
1. Out of the Loop

**_Warnings_**_: Good chance they won't get finished._

**Summary**: An assortment of old or half-written or nonsensical stories I've got floating around about this lovely universe.

**Notes:**

Hi. I'm back. It's been forever, but there's a new book and there are new stories here and TheoMiller is lovely and she started a section for KnR on AO3 (seriously guys come over to AO3 with us. It's lonely). Anyway, it's not the best contribution, but some of these story bits might never see the light of day if I wait to finish them, so here they are. My feelings about these range wildly, but the fandom is so small, it's better to have partial stories than none at all, right? Right? Guys?

If you happen to have suggestions or something, by all means, hit me with inspiration.

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"Your horse just broke down the Mayor's fence."

In a flurry of movement, Michael and Fisk jump up from the table and grab at their outer clothes.

"Get the scotch!" Michael shouts, tossing Fisk's belt in his direction.

"We didn't bring the scotch!" barks Fisk, catching the item with barely a glance.

"What?!" Michael doesn't halt his furious tugging as he yanks on his second boot. "'Twas on the list."

"A lot of things were on the list," Fisk shoots back. "I had to amend."

Katherine resists the urge to roll her eyes. Their squabbling is generally amusing, but it does make a girl feel out of the loop.

"What do we have then?"

"In way of alcohol? Nothing."

"You're the squire!" exclaims Michael distractedly, searching frantically for his jacket. "Aren't you supposed to prepare for something like this?"

"She's your horse!"

"I gave her to you!"

Fisk gets a steady hand on Michael's shoulder and hands over Michael's jacket, which he'd scooped up from the underside of the bed. "When she's drunk, she's still yours."

Interrupting, Katherine announces, "It doesn't matter whose she is, boys, we've still got to find her before she gets us kicked out of town."


	2. Cranky Old Ladies

**Summary:** Fisk and Michael cannot catch a break (because no one likes them). Featuring: Cranky old ladies, Michael getting beat up, and cuddling (strictly for warmth, of course).

**Notes:**

Oh jeez, I think this is possibly the first thing I ever wrote for this universe? First or second. I'm quite sure the third book hadn't happened yet. If at any point you find yourself wondering how a certain thing came about in the story, just hush that little voice in your head and carry on.

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"Get out and stay out if ya know what's good for ya!" screams the old woman, menacingly. She spits at his feet.

Michael will be the first to admit that he's a bit stunned by the outburst. He and Fisk had offered her a fair price for two mugs of lemonade when they stumbled into town. Michael had been sure they would have encountered a stream or lake hours ago, but the road had continued to stretch out flat and empty around them, and their thirst had been mounting.

The small cottage was the first piece of civilization they had run across in days and the water skins had been empty since the morning. The woman had met them at her gate, going on amiably about the sight they made staggering up and offered to sell them some of her freshly made lemonade.

Fisk grumbled about the price, but Michael would've paid much higher for the opportunity to drink from a muddy puddle at that point. The lemonade had been devastatingly good and he had leant his forehead against Fisk's shoulder in weary contentment. Fisk, of course, couldn't resist the opportunity to make a grab for the remnants of Michael's mug.

They wrestled happily for a few moments, the old woman laughing and hollering for Michael to use his height. Michael did, thrusting his hands over his head and grinning at the sight of Fisk straining up to reach them.

Then everything went to hell.

The woman pulled in a sharp breath, her face becoming ugly with anger. "Animal!" she yelled, pointing at Michael. "Bastard! Whelp! Randy come quick!"

Michael and Fisk shared a confused look. Then Fisk's eyes widened and understanding lit them.

"And ta think I showed some kindness towards ya. You'll get no more 'a that in this town, ya hear? Get! Get out!" When she spits it lands on Michael's boot.

Michael lowers his hands in shock. Fisk takes hold of his wrist fiercely and begins backing up. A towering man, who can only be Randy, rounds the side of the house. The woman is still raging and Michael just feels confused. He fights against Fisk's hold and steps towards the pair.

"Please, sir, I'm not sure what we've done to warrant such hostility," he says, hoping to understand the treatment they've been given. Surely they can explain the situation. Fisk starts tugging harder.

"Look at his wrists!" The woman is gesturing harshly at Michael. "Heathen, trash! Get him out of my sight!"

Michael's stomach drops. Of course. He should have realized straight off after the trouble they had in the last town. He feels Fisk turning to open the gate. The mug is still clutched in his hand and, despite the livid look that Randy is wearing, Michael steps forward awkwardly to hand it back. It's the wrong move.

Randy's punch goes directly through the arm that Michael throws up in startled defense. The force of it knocks Michael off his feet and he sprawls on the ground, open to attack. The boot that connects with his ribs is huge and fear lances through Michael. He attempts to twist away, but the next kick knocks the wind out of him. While trying to clear the stars from his eyes, the man moves on to his legs. A vicious kick to the knee causes Michael to curl up in pain. He begins to lose focus and Randy's boots continue to hammer at him.

It takes him a few moments to notice when Randy backs off. He tries opening his eyes and is greeted by the hazy outline of Fisk holding a knife and facing off with Randy. The yelling has stopped. Michael tries moving, but he feels fuzzy and disconnected. His limbs refuse to cooperate. Randy speaks.

"We've got no squabble with you, boy." His voice is deep. "Take your horses and go."

"Not without him, I won't." Fisk's voice is even, but Michael can hear the fear underneath.

"An unredeemed man deserves none of your loyalty. He deserves to be treated like the scum he is!"

For a moment, Michael wishes that Fisk will listen. This can only end badly, but it need not involve them both. He tries speaking, but all that escapes is a moan.

"Michael deserves everything." Fisk is angry, voice low and sharp. "You'll have to contend with me before you lay another finger on him.

The old woman doesn't hide the outrage in her voice when she speaks. "Risk your life for this whelp, will you?"

Michael's body is burning. Black spots cloud his vision.

"Yes."

"Disgusting, disgusting. Almost as bad, ya are," she screeches. "Get off my lawn!"

The voices continue, but they are fading and Michael makes one last effort to move. Pain lances through his chest and left leg, and he groans involuntarily. Hands touch Michael's shoulders. He flinches at the contact.

"Shh shh shh," comes Fisk's voice, suddenly right next to him. "I know Mike, but we've got to move, c'mon." He sounds frantic. Michael wants to tell him that he's fine, but the pain is disorienting. Fisk pushes an arm underneath Michael's body then heaves him up. Michael passes out.

* * *

He wakes up feeling as though days have passed since he last opened his eyes. His body aches viscously and one eye refuses to open fully. He concentrates only on breathing for a few moments, trying not to disturb his bruised ribs. Slowly, Michael begins to take in his surroundings. It's dark, but he can still make out the canopy of trees above him. Flexing his fingers, he discovers that he's lying on a bedroll. The movement causes leaves to crunch underneath his hands. Michael tries to remember how he got here, but the events are blurry and distant.

All he knows is that he is in pain, thirsty, cold, and alone. He moves to sit up and his world goes black again.

* * *

He drifts in and out of consciousness after that. Sometimes he wakes up shivering from the cold, alone. Sometimes there are fingers on his face and soothing words in his ears. Eventually, Michael wakes up to the sun leaking through the trees. He can feel a warm body lined up next to him. Everything looks clear and focused instead of blurry and spinning. The aches in his body have not disappeared, but Michael knows better than to attempt sitting up this time.

"Fisk?" he ventures, his mouth completely dry.

The body lying nearby twitches and rolls towards him. Fisk's face appears above him. He looks horrible. Red lines mar his skin from the leaves he must have been sleeping on. Disheveled and bleary-eyed, he appears confused for a few moments.

Then, "Michael, Michael," he chants, relieved. Fisk ducks his head down on Michael's arm and lets out a harsh breath. "Gods, you had me worried."

"Sorry," Michael breathes, coughing dryly. His throat is scratchy and uncomfortable.

"Yeah, well, you're lucky you look so pathetic or I might not accept that apology." Fisk is running his hands lightly over Michael's body, checking the injuries.

"Thirsty," croaks Michael, coughing again. Fisk looks strained.

"I know, but I haven't found any water yet. I think I know where to look, but I didn't want to leave you for long. There were some rabbits around last night so there must be a creek or lake nearby." He glances at Michael. "Will you be okay if I'm gone for a bit?"

Michael can see that Fisk is worried and he wonders how bad his injuries must be. He wants to know what happened after the fight, but his thirst stops him. He tells Fisk to go ahead and mentions some plants that might help his bruises, reminding Fisk to offer the proper sacrifice.

It feels like hours before Fisk returns, holding a full skin of water and several herbs. Michael gratefully accepts the drink and helps Fisk as best he can to remove his clothing. Fisk is becoming quite good at administering herbs to wounds and the thought irks Michael somewhat.

"Why is it that I am always the one to get beat?" he asks, voice much clearer now that he has had a drink.

Fisk's lips quirk upward before he answers. "Must be something about your face that makes folk want to hit you."

"Mayhap 'tis something about the company I travel with that upsets them," Michael grumbles, wincing as Fisk moves to his knee.

When he's done, Fisk helps Michael move to a more comfortable position against the tree. He pulls the bedroll slowly and positions Michael's back between two large roots. He then moves to lay down himself, looking worn out.

"What happened?" asks Michael quietly. "I assume you didn't head into the town after the kind welcome we received." The bitterness in his voice surprises him. "And I don't remember any forests on our way in. Where are we?"

Fisk props himself up on one arm to look at Michael. He stays quiet for a few moments. "I dragged you here," he confesses, finally. "I could barely carry you out of the yard, so I grabbed a bedroll to put you on. I had to leave the horses and everything else behind. I headed off the side of the road and just kept walking. Eventually we wound up here."

"It must have taken ages to reach this place!" exclaims Michael.

"It's surprising the amount of things you can do when you're desperate," he says softly, no longer facing Michael. The statement makes Michael feel strange and heady.

"But how did you manage to get us away from Randy?"

Fisk looks guilty. "Our things," he says. "I traded the horses and our packs for him to let us go. I'm sorry Michael."

Michael is stunned. "No, no. Don't be sorry."

"It's my fault in the first place!" Fisk barks. "I shouldn't have provoked you, not when I knew your shirt was loose. I hadn't gotten around to tightening the cuffs yet. Now, of course, I don't even have the equipment."

"Stop it!" Michael yells, exasperated. "You are not to blame for this. I'd be dead without you, a hundred times over." He wants to reach out to Fisk, but his limbs are stiff. "Thank you, Fisk."

Fisk has a weird look on his face that Michael can't quite read. He focuses on other things. "So, we have one bedroll and one water skin. Anything else?"

"My incredible survival skills," quips Fisk, eager to leave the tense moment behind. "There is a stream about an hour's walk in that direction." He points further into the woods. "The road is behind us, one direction leading to the town we were kicked out of originally, the other direction leading to the town we were thrown from before we made it ten steps past the first house. We can move closer to the stream once you're feeling up to it."

Of course, he fails to mention what they will do in the long run. The towns are few and far between in this part of the kingdom. The two nearest towns would rather hang them than house them, and Michael is in no state to travel. Besides, it would take much longer without the horses.

Poor Chant, he thinks, unhappily. I'll find a way to get you back.

Fisk begins to list the things they can do in the meantime. Having something to do seems to settle him a bit. He bustles about making beds of leaves, fixing up the herbs on his injuries, and tossing out ideas for how to get some dinner. Michael listens vaguely, wishing he could hunt for them like he usually does. Rabbits and squirrels jump in and out of view, but snares would take time to set up. As for ducks, Michael is already missing his bow. In the end, Fisk tromps back to the stream and returns with three fish.

"It's not much, but it was taking too long." Fisk is exhausted and Michael feels horrible and useless. He instructs Fisk as best he can on cooking the fish, but Fisk has never been much of a chef. They turn out dry and burnt. However, Michael hasn't eaten in ages.

"'Tis the best fish I've ever had," he announces. He tears at the skin roughly with his teeth. Michael doesn't need to look up to know that Fisk is wearing a dubious expression. After dinner, Fisk puts out the fire and aids Michael in pulling the bedroll from beneath him to use as a blanket. Michael insists that Fisk use it for himself, but Fisk ignores him and moves onto his own pile of leaves nearby. Michael is restless and uncomfortable. A chill breeze continues to pass through, causing them both to shiver and the leaves underneath to crackle.

"This would be one of those rare times that I actually miss that damn dog," mutters Fisk, teeth chattering. "He made a good furnace."

"Serves you right for disliking him so much when he was around," replies Michael. "We'll have to make do, I suppose. Come over here." Fisk gives him a startled look and Michael rolls his eyes. "I'm freezing, you're freezing, and we have only one blanket. Just don't kick me in your sleep. I've had quite enough of that lately."

He's slow about moving, but eventually Fisk slides over to Michael's side, tugging a bit of the cover over himself as well. Michael wishes he could maneuver closer to Fisk's body heat, but his chest and leg scream out in pain when he tries shifting. A groan escapes him, sounding pathetic. Fisk huffs out a laugh, already falling asleep. "You'll survive, baby." The statement is meant to mock, but comes out sounding odd. Michael ignores the shiver that climbs his spine. It must be the cold.

* * *

In the morning, Michael awakens to Fisk's light snoring. There is an arm slung low on his stomach, thankfully avoiding the mass of bruises further up. The poultice covering his wounds has been changed and Michael takes a moment to admire the dedication of his squire. Keeping his breathing as even as possible, he begins to go over each injury, cataloging them. Swollen eye, making the left side of his face feel stiff. Badly bruised ribs, but probably not broken. One direct kick to the sternum has made it sore, but it is unlikely that there would be any lasting damage. What worries Michael the most is his knee. The swelling hasn't gone down and even the slightest twitch is painful. He lets out a long-suffering sigh.

The sound disturbs Fisk, who grumbles into Michael's ear. The arm around his stomach tightens, a hand gripping his hip. "Why must you always wake up so early Mike?"

Michael blames the nickname on Fisk's grogginess and graciously chooses to ignore it. "'Tis my superior breeding."

"I hate you. What would you like for breakfast?"

"And I suppose my only options are fish or tree bark?"

"I could probably grunge up some bugs if you prefer, Noble sir." Fisk has his face mashed into Michael's shoulder, so he can feel him smiling. Fisk rises slowly and spends a long while fussing over Michael's comfort before he sets out.

"Could you, mayhap, sit me up a bit?" Michael is dead tired of lying down.

"We're taking it slowly though," Fisk warns, sliding an arm beneath his shoulders. Together they manage to prop up him against the tree without too much wincing on Michael's part, although Fisk continues to eye him worriedly.

"Go on, fetch me my food squire," Michael says, grinning wickedly up at Fisk.

Fisk glowers at him, and then tosses a few sturdy sticks in his direction. "Here," he says. "Make yourself useful." He pulls out his knife and hands it to Michael as well, then heads out.

Michael spends the next few hours whittling some spears out of the sticks. Once that's done, he attempts to stretch his sore body, hoping the pain will make him stop thinking about Fisk's arm on his stomach and the word "baby" on his lips.


	3. Burning Up

**Summary:**

Michael is burning up. Fisk is just trying to maintain his sanity. At least one of them has to, right?

**Notes:**

I'm starting to see a pattern with my stories all taking place in a random forest setting. Because why not. And the animals are always suspiciously absent. And for some reason, Fisk always has to carry Michael to an indiscriminate location to heal him. What. I feel like I must have been having my own fever dream when I wrote this. Pretty sure this was the second oldest document I had floating around? I can't even remember writing half of it.

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Michael is burning up.

He tries to remember what is going on. A rainstorm? No, it isn't raining anymore. Is it? He gasps and twists. His body is on fire. Michael can't even tell if he's awake or asleep.

"Michael. Michael, hold on."

Someone is talking to him. Or maybe he's imagining that.

* * *

Michael is pretty sure he's riding a horse. The gate is choppy and jarring. He wishes he could get down, but the horse keeps looking back at him and snickering.

"What? Why can't we stop?"

"We might if you quit moving," says the horse.

It occurs to Michael, suddenly, that he's the one running. The horse must be on his back. This is cause for some alarm.

"Why are you riding me?" he asks, reasonably.

A snort. That sounds familiar. Perhaps he has met this horse. This would be convenient, as negotiating terms with friends is always easier than with strangers. Michael is exhausted and he and the horse are going to have to work out some other way to travel. He explains this to the heavy weight that is bearing down on him.

"Alright, buddy," answers the familiar voice. "We're going to have a long talk about these hallucinations when you're feeling better."

Now Michael definitely recognizes the voice. Good, reliable Fisk. Whenever Michael is in a jam, Fisk is always there to smooth things over. Fisk will handle this pesky horse.

Michael squints open his eyes that he has only just realized were closed and finds himself staring at Fisk's jaw.

"Am I awake?"

"I sure hope so. Hard to tell though." Fisk's voice is strained. He hitches Michael is his arms and continues walking.

"Are you… are you carrying me?"

"Trying to. I'd love it if you want to walk though." Michael doesn't hear this because he's busy giggling at the picture of Fisk attempting to get anywhere with Michael in his arms.

A sigh. "I'll take that as a no then." Fisk stumbles a bit as Michael continues to tremble with laughter. "Could you hold still then? Would be the least you could do, Noble sir," he grumbles.

For no reason at all, Michael laughs harder. He's forgotten what was so funny, but the giggles aren't dying down. In fact, he's pretty sure they're getting louder.

Fisk stops walking. He shakes Michael softly. "Michael? Going to stop anytime soon or should I be making camp in the middle of the day?"

Michael can't stop laughing. He's afraid that he's starting to sound a bit hysterical. He is hot and dizzy and so, so tired. But Michael can't sleep while he's laughing and this horrible thought just sets him off again. He clutches Fisk's shirt and turns into it, wishing he could stop.

"Whoa, Michael. Hey," Fisk says, alarmed. "What's wrong?"

Vaguely aware that his giggles have transformed into frustrated sobs, Michael hides his face further into Fisk's shirt. He just needs to sleep. Why can't he sleep? "Make it stop," he gasps to Fisk, because Fisk always fixes things. Fisk will do this for him. "Please, take it away. Fix it, fix me, you always make it better" babbles Michael inanely, "I need you to do this, I need you Fisk, please—"

"Shh shh," soothes Fisk. He's sitting now, cradling Michael and rocking him gently. "C'mon, I've got you. You're alright."

They stay like that for a while, Michael buried in Fisk's chest. His gasping sobs die down eventually, leaving him shaking and half-asleep. The last thing he hears is Fisk humming a low, nonsensical tune before he slips into sleep.

* * *

Michael is freezing. Freezing, freezing, freezing.

Something is rushing in his ears, getting louder and louder.

"Turn it down Fisk." Michael doesn't know if Fisk is there, but he trusts his squire to take care of him.

His forehead is covered with something cool and damp and when he tries to move his arms he finds that he's being cocooned by several pieces of material. The shivers are becoming violent. The rushing in his ears continues to roar. Michael opens his eyes to glare at the noise. Running water.

"Quiet down, would you?"

The river gurgles evilly at him and turns up the volume. Pitifully, Michael moans, wishing he had the energy to punch the river right in the face. Apparently, the river is a mind-reader. It twisted angrily in response, building up a massive wave to throw at Michael. He flinches and turns away, rolling against something solid.

"Steady, Michael, it's going to be fine."

"It's freezing," Michael stammers. "I can't get wet in this cold."

"What? You're not getting wet. We're warming you up."

"Not if those waves keep coming. Then we'll both be wet. And cold. Crazy river. Tis probably in league with the horse."

Michael can almost see the horse now, just at the edge of his vision. It is waiting for him. Waiting for the river to drag him in no doubt. Well, he'll show them.

The blankets are difficult to tear away, but Michael manages to untangle himself. He stands in front of Fisk, intent on protecting his squire. Fisk makes a grab for his arms and yells something, probably warning Michael of the treacherous river. When he looks he can see that the river is indeed plotting an attack. The pebbles on the bank are rising and growing. The water churns dangerously in the background. He has to protect Fisk.

Spinning around, Michael grabs Fisk and shoves him backwards into a nearby tree, trying his best to cover Fisk's body. He feels dizzy and ill. Beneath his hands, Fisk is breathing quick and shallow. The resistance he had put up is temporarily lost, leaving him gripping at Michael's shirt.

"Michael," he says, sounding out of breath.

"Cold," Michael replies, pushing into Fisk's warmth. He has him shoved against a tree, but can't seem to remember why. There is sweat glistening where Fisk's neck meets shoulder and Michael has the intense urge to taste it. A warning bell is going off somewhere in the back of his mind, but it's hard to concentrate on.

Fisk lets out a stuttering breath when Michael's tongue makes contact, clutching harder to him.

"Oh God. Mike."

The taste is tangy, just shy of unpleasant, but it makes Michael curious. He wants to explore further, put his mouth on Fisk's neck, his jaw. The dizziness returns and Michael stumbles forward, crashing Fisk tight against the trunk. He lets out a low moan and ducks his head.

Fisk stands frozen. Then, he takes a steadying breath. "Michael, c'mon. We have to warm you up. Back to the covers."

As he helps him back to the bedding, Michael can feel his squire shaking.

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**Notes:**

So there's an end bit written, but it needs quite a few more scenes to bridge the gap. Someday over the rainbow, maybe.


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